


These Emerald Waters

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Canticle [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corypheus has been dead--truly dead--for three weeks when Cullen kisses him.</p><p>Not that Dorian was expecting anything of the sort when he sat down at the board. They've been playing chess together for months now, every day they're both in Skyhold, and Dorian would never admit how much the time means to him. Even on the days where he crawls into bed bruised and aching as the sun is rising, he's always up and impeccably dressed by noon, ready to sit across the board and make Cullen blush as many times as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Emerald Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't ask me why I gave Cullen a bit of a stutter, because I have no idea. Also, this is another one of those "written very fast, not proofread very carefully" stories, so if you see any typos, feel free to point them out.

Corypheus has been dead--truly dead--for three weeks when Cullen kisses him.

Not that Dorian was expecting anything of the sort when he sat down at the board. They've been playing chess together for months now, every day they're both in Skyhold, and Dorian would never admit how much the time means to him. Even on the days where he crawls into bed bruised and aching as the sun is rising, he's always up and impeccably dressed by noon, ready to sit across the board and make Cullen blush as many times as possible.

Really, it's impossible not to flirt with the man. He's more than handsome, and even if Dorian knows better than to hope for more, it's a pleasant form of self-torture. That Cullen is apparently ignorant of his own good looks only makes it more fun to compliment him, to watch him flounder in bewilderment and return the compliment in kind because he's too polite to do otherwise, then blush again when he realizes what he's done.

At least, that's how it started. It became something else over the weeks and months, less a game and more a chance for peace in the midst of the seemingly endless war against Corypheus and his allies. A few quiet moments to enjoy life, when both their lives could end tomorrow.

Every time Cullen wins a game, or teases him back--however awkwardly--or leans across the table to elaborate on some fascinating bit of strategy, Dorian feels the way he does at the end of a hard battle, breathless and dizzy and so tired of fighting. The intensity with which Cullen regards him, the attentiveness with which he listens: these are the things that bring Dorian back every day, the things he misses when one or the other of them is gone from Skyhold.

It gets to the point where Dorian has his very own version of the Chant, one he recites as he walks to every game, his own list of commandments to remind himself where the line is drawn and what will happen if he crosses it. There is no Maker's paradise on the other side of that line, not for him, not with Cullen.

_"The moment they entered the city of the Maker, their sin poisoned it. What had been golden turned black."_

He won't be responsible for turning this golden city black, won't lose the small intimacies Cullen allows him just because he wants more. It's not selfless, not entirely: if he can't have everything, he still has something. He still has those moments when Cullen throws back his head and laughs in delight, or tilts his head as he considers something Dorian has said, or lounges back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk as he says "check." He still has that tiny smile Cullen sometimes gets, more in his eyes than his mouth, the smile that turns Dorian's line carved in stone to a line drawn in the sand in the middle of a windstorm.

It's agony, and Dorian can't bring himself to give it up, no matter how many sleepless nights it costs him.

The board is set up in the library today, the last of the winter storms throwing sleet against the window behind him, an occasional draft creeping down from the rookery to make him shiver. Cullen is distracted, but he sometimes is, and Dorian is always prepared to take up any conversational slack.

They've finished one game and are resetting the board for another when Cullen says, "Do you know we've been in Skyhold for an entire year now?"

"It doesn't feel like that long," Dorian muses, turning a pawn in his fingers. If they've been in Skyhold a year, then it's been ten months or so of chess games, and at least six of torturing himself.

"And then some days it feels like it's been decades," Cullen says.

"True," Dorian says, and looks up to find Cullen smiling at him.

He loses control of his fingers and the pawn slips free, clicking against the stone floor and rolling under his chair.

Before he can chase it down, Cullen has knelt beside him to fish it out, and Dorian has to suck in a very slow, very quiet breath to keep from touching those golden curls, so close at hand. His skin burns with the desire to stroke Cullen's neck, bared and tense as he cranes his head to look for the missing piece, and his triumphant "ha!" when he finds it is very nearly Dorian's undoing.

Cullen straightens and holds out the piece without rising from his knees, and Dorian is grateful that the stiff leather of his pants will hide all but the most obvious erection. For once, he takes the piece without touching Cullen's skin, afraid of what foolishness his infatuation might tempt him to, with Cullen so close and so conveniently kneeling.

Or rather, he tries to take the piece without letting their hands brush, but he's no sooner touched the ivory than Cullen's fingers close around his almost painfully hard. Startled, he looks up to find Cullen has moved closer. Far too close, everything Dorian has ever wanted and won't let himself take.

"Dorian," Cullen begins, then hesitates. "I..." He stops again, frowning, clearly frustrated.

Dorian extracts his hand from Cullen's, and it's surprisingly difficult. Not because of his own desire to touch, but because Cullen has so tight a grip on him that he has to actually use his other hand to get free. "Whatever you want to say, Commander," Dorian says, forcing his tone to lightness, "you might want to say from your chair. While I certainly don't object to handsome men kneeling at my feet, people _will_ begin to talk." And he winks, smirking despite the fear growing in his chest.

If Cullen has noticed his infatuation and intends to make some awkward declaration of friendship--only friendship, nothing more, he will hasten to assure Dorian--then his next step will likely be to end these games, and Dorian will lose far more than the company of a handsome man. Any such avowals of friendship will spell its end, make every future interaction awkward and uncomfortable until it's easier to avoid each other.

In his distraction, Cullen recaptures his hand, this time pinning it to Dorian's knee. He still doesn't speak, his throat working as if the words are sticking despite his attempts to force them out.

Dorian frees his hand again and tries to stand. "It's gotten later than I thought, and I promised the Inquisitor some time this afternoon." Perhaps he can postpone the inevitable, maintain his illusion a little longer.

Cullen now has one hand on each of his knees, holding him in his chair. And how did he get so close? When Dorian leaned forward to stand, the movement brought them almost nose-to-nose, and Cullen hasn't leaned away despite the blush staining his cheeks. His eyes are wide and intent, and Dorian says "Cullen?" in a voice that's far too raw.

Something shifts in Cullen's gaze, and then his mouth is on Dorian's, just a dry brush of lips that's over almost as soon as it's begun. Dorian's struck dumb, unable to do anything but stare as the shape of his world is forcibly rearranged.

"I-I-I'm sorry," Cullen stutters, staring Dorian directly in the chin, his face now red enough to glow. "I h-hope that wasn't t-too forward..."

Only Cullen would think a kiss like that was forward. Dorian wants to shout, dance, sing, anything to let out the feeling caged in his chest. Instead, he takes Cullen's face in both his hands and kisses him again, holding himself back with all the control he's cultivated over the last year. He wants to devour but instead he tastes gently, deliberately, tilting Cullen's head for a better angle so he can slide his tongue between those lips, the lips he's been thinking about for months when he lies in his own bed, feeling guilty but stroking himself anyway.

Cullen shudders, his hands on Dorian's knees pulling him forward and down, out of his chair and into Cullen's lap. The movement breaks the kiss, but Cullen's mouth is back on his while he's still trying to understand what happened, and this time, Cullen is the one pressing forward, sucking on Dorian's lower lip, thrusting his tongue into Dorian's mouth.

It's not the most expert kiss Dorian's ever received, but he doesn't care, because it's _Cullen_. Cullen's hands on his hips, Cullen's hair in his fists, Cullen's body straining against his as if he wants to merge them together. Cullen moaning softly into his mouth.

A throat, pointedly cleared, jerks them apart, and Dorian almost falls backward before Cullen catches him. "Is this really the place, my lords?" Mother Giselle asks with a single raised brow.

"N-n-no, of course not," Cullen stutters. "My apologies."

She sniffs, and Dorian almost offers her his handkerchief, except that his mind is too busy with _Cullen Cullen Cullen Cullen_ and he just can't be bothered.

As soon as she's gone, Dorian's eyes meet Cullen's, and suddenly they're laughing, falling against each other and wheezing until they both have tears running down their faces.

When they're reduced to occasional giggles, Dorian rests his head on Cullen's shoulder, still astride his legs, arms still wrapped around his neck. There are a hundred things he wants, a hundred things he's denied wanting because they were stupid and impossible but that are now all gloriously possible. More than possible; likely, even.

But out of all those hundred things--most of which would scorch off Mother Giselle's eyebrows--the one Dorian wants most is the one he has right now: Cullen's arms around him, and Cullen's mouth smiling against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is not the story I sat down to write. That one was supposed to be a couple hundred words of silliness: Dorian flirts, Cullen calls his bluff by kissing him, Dorian gapes, Cullen walks off whistling. That's it. Fin.
> 
> I'm not complaining per se, but why do I kid myself that I have any control over my own stories?


End file.
